


I'm out of time, I'm out of my head

by JuniperCypress



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Divine Pulse (Fire Emblem), F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gender-Neutral My Unit | Byleth, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, Mentioned Blue Lions Students (Fire Emblem), Minor Character Death Mention, Minor Grief/Mourning, Multi, Post-Time Skip, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:48:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26366722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuniperCypress/pseuds/JuniperCypress
Summary: i thought about byleth losing control of divine pulse while sick and made myself laughalso dedue is here bc i love him
Relationships: Dedue Molinaro & My Unit | Byleth, Dedue Molinaro/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 4
Kudos: 39





	I'm out of time, I'm out of my head

You don't know how long you've been like this, but the desk against your cheek is no longer cool or refreshing and it's probably time to sit up. But it feels like an iron band is tightening around your temples, and even the air above you feels like a listless nauseating tide that could ruin you the moment you try to move in it. Hardly a dignifying state for a professor, much less a general.

In your defense, you didn't know it would get this bad. You have a slim history with getting sick. Not _no_ history, you're still human, however much you may have worried your father growing up. After all, you did eventually start to smile, argue, and even be the pitiful sniffling kid crawling into his bed on the odd winter season. Still...it's been a while. In fact the last time you felt this lousy, Jeralt had probably still been there to ruffle your hair and sit by your bedside with a knife to polish. 

The thought returns the ache of his absence for a moment, a bitter taste on your dry tongue. It feels pathetic and pointless, but you wish he were here...you often do when things don’t go right. Then a gentle grip is on you, and for a wild moment you think you summoned him. The hands are strong—your body isn't making this easy for them and yet they're pulling you up back into your chair. 

"So. No mere headache after all," says a voice. It's not your father's, and you relax. It's someone you wish you could properly introduce to Jeralt now that things are so...you catch a bleary glimpse of seaglass green eyes frowning into yours.

"Why did you not simply leave for some rest after the war council?" Dedue is kneeling before you, his large frame still at your eye level. He keeps you steady with a hand at your shoulder, and the other raises to press to your forehead. "You are burning up..."

His palm is rough and so blessedly cool. You let your eyes slide closed, and you relax into his hands. You hear the surprised catch of his breath, and the chuckle, but his words escape you when you realize he's pulling away. Despite yourself you can't help but pout at the departure of his touch and his comfort...but then his hand is at your shoulder again, and the other is again at your forehead.

"You are burning up..." He said that already, but you don't care. Unless...but it hardly matters. You lean into his touch with a contented sigh.

Again he starts, laughs, pulls away.

"Well, making amends of you must begin somewhere," he says. "Some water?"

Water, _yes_. The thorns in your throat are reaching up even into the spaces of your skull. Dedue pours from the pitcher you keep nearby and brings you your usual mug. You take it in both hands and let the water soothe its way down...

...only for the mug to vanish from your hands. Startled, assuming you dropped it, you flail out in an attempt to catch it again. But the mug is in Dedue's hands now, and your spasm knocks it to your desk. There goes the report you were drafting, if it even made any sense. Dedue blinks, but the mug is undamaged and he is undeterred. He moves to refill it, smiling a bit at your embarrassment, even if he does not fully understand its root. Saints smite you, is now really the occasion to be turning back the hands of time? You must get ahold of yourself.

When you finally succeed with the water, Dedue’s hands are tracing you again—gentle, but clinical. Your head tilts slightly at the press of calloused fingers at your pulse, and you try not to wince at the intrusion on your sore throat.

“You should be in your quarters,” Dedue murmurs. “I think it would be best for you if I just carry you there.”

You quickly shake your head and just as quickly regret it, as your office spins a little.

“Troops,” you force out, now that your voice is cooperating a little. “Bad for morale…”

Not a month ago this army was dancing around the possibility of starvation. The last thing these soldiers need is rumor of sickness among the command. You know Dedue understands the importance of this as well, but he still stands hesitating over you.

“Then I should at least escort you there,” he says. “If you can even walk…?”

You nod, again with a bit too much force, and try to propel yourself out of the chair before you can think too hard about it. Another mistake—the whole planet tilts with you, and black spots splash across your vision. Like a threatened animal your body cries on instinct for the refuge of your office chair…and then in the next heartbeat you are in it again. Damn it.

This time you close your eyes and breathe in deeply through your nose, preparing for what awaits you. You push yourself up to your feet with every muscle clenched, balancing like a tightrope walker. Perfect. Dedue is none the wiser to your practice run.

“Okay let’s go,” you let out in a cheerful and unconvincing rush of breath. Dedue has a frown on his handsome scarred face, but he follows you closely out of the room.

You focus all your energy and attention on moving one foot in front of the next, as unaware of your surroundings as a blindered horse. Your blood vessels are boiling, roaring inside your head, and it takes all you have to keep a normal pace in case any soldiers or monks should see you. At one point though Dedue does slide an arm around your waist, and you let him. That kind of rumor doesn’t worry you—an army can last on bad food but requires nothing less than gourmet gossip.

It does tend to embarrass your companion, however, and he rarely touches you where others can see. You only know someone has crossed paths with you when Dedue withdraws his arm and you both stop. The stop wobbles you and you have to take a breath through a fresh break of sweat over your body.

“Ah, Dedue, great timing! Hello, Professor.” A sweet voice. Ashe. Your gaze slides over him and registers little. “Dedue, do you know where I can find some ginger root? I figured if we had any left in our stores you’d be the one to ask—”

The familiar muscled arm is around you again, and you are moving again. You think perhaps you have continued on without answering Ashe’s question and find yourself blurting, “Highest shelf by Mercedes’ sugar stash!”

Dedue removes his arm and you stop walking. The break of sweat, the _same_ one. There is a pause.

“Okay, that was creepy,” Ashe says nervously. “Professor, how did you—wait, are you alright?”

You don’t hear whatever quick excuse Dedue makes for you before you are both moving again, because you are too busy cursing yourself. This has to stop, your power is out of control, but it seems that the more you panic about it the more addled it becomes. The little frog leaps through time only increase as you try to stop them, and the simple walk to your quarters becomes a long and tortuous obstacle course. In one turn of time you knock a poor stable boy into a fountain, only to overcorrect and nearly do the same to an old man in the next. You get caught in a miserable loop on a set of steps that become an entire staircase for you to stumble down. Dedue takes a supportive grip on your elbow, and when it vanishes you lash out for balance and smack the poor man in the face. _Knock it off!_ says an irritated voice in your head, one you can never be entirely certain is yours.

You don’t know how much farther you have left to reach your quarters, but sweat is pouring down your face now, bursts of pain blooming behind your eyes like a fireworks show. A gentle hand stops you and turns you around, and you can just make out how worried your fellow general looks. You become aware of how blisteringly hot your cheek is at his fingers. You want nothing more than to just sink into him and be done, but you’re both almost there. Just a little further…

But then the hand comes and turns you around again, and that’s one spin too many. Your head keeps spinning and you fall into blackness, into a strong embrace.

When you wake again, a cold wet cloth is sponging at your face. You know the smell of your room and the feel of your bedclothes.

“There you are,” says that low, gentle voice. Had he left your side at all? “Manuela just left. I have a mixture to give you to help with that fever.”

You blink through whatever cloudy unpleasantness has made your eyes so heavy, glad that the sun is setting and the light is less harsh. Well, none of that went as planned, but you suppose it can’t be helped. What matters is the flow of time seems to be moving in one deliberate direction again, and you don’t have to move anymore.

Leaning over you, Dedue is running the wet cloth along your neck and brushing your bangs out of your eyes. As shaky as you feel, rotten from the inside out, it's a treat to see that earnest and fussing face of his. Not nearly as unbreakably stoic as people believe.

When he turns away for a moment a whine escapes you, and you reach out a clammy hand to grab his wrist. He laughs quietly and slips briefly into the Duscur tongue. He seems to be less embarrassed using terms of endearment from his homeland—or maybe he just knows that _Goddess_ , it makes you crazy when he does it.

“I assure you I am not leaving,” he says. You feel the hefty weight of him sitting beside you on the bed. “At least not for tonight.”

Your rational mind wants to challenge that—what about the winter garden planting, what about Dimitri—but your rational mind has also been fried like an egg. Instead you wriggle yourself closer to him and let your head find his chest. You sigh, at peace at last.

Until you feel his lips brush down against yours.

Your protest splutters out more in noise than words at first.

“N-no, you’ll get sick…!” 

He laughs again and his arm comes around you, settling you against him.

“Let a soldier choose his risks for himself, commander.”

You scowl. This time you are in full control, and the shift comes as easily as it does on the battlefield. The world turns back, you duck, and the kiss comes to fall on your forehead instead.

Little victories.


End file.
